


i will love you without a single string attached.

by blessed_image



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Character Study, IDKKKSKAKQKA IM SORRY, IM SO SORRY H, Implied/Referenced Eating Disorders, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentioned Canonical Character Death, Mentioned Georgie Denbrough, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Neglect, Sad Bill Denbrough, another character study luvs xx, eating issues, hhh - Freeform, hhhh, hhhhhhhhhhhhhh, i got kinda carried away making bills life rough, i made mr and mrs denbrough assholes in sorry, idk if it counts?? but ill add this anyway, sorry luv, uhhhhhghghhajja
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 11:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20852780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessed_image/pseuds/blessed_image
Summary: In which a boy finds a home within another boy’s eye.





	i will love you without a single string attached.

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE TAGS BC THIS MAY BE TRIGGERINGvvvcc

Mike Hanlon’s hands feel both rough and soft, Bill notes as a blush rises on his cheeks, as they pull on Bill’s fair wrists. These wrists are boney, he knows, these wrists do not even begin to compete in terms of having widened throughout the years in comparison to Mike’s. 

Sure, Eddie was always going to have thinner arms than Bill; the fact was inescapable, and he had long since accepted that. Yet, he still felt some form of envy at the way it suited him. He wished such a thing would look well on him, instead he looks sickly. A pale mirage of who he once was loitering around in a body he barely calls his own. At first, the rest of the losers imagined Bill would be the one with the broad shoulders as well as toned muscles- chiseled by the God’s themselves; which had lasted a solid four months before Mike had caught up, overtaking him entirely after a few weeks. Bill really hadn’t cared much at all when it happened, instead focusing his attention on ensuring his eyes never lingered too long on the other boy’s figure. Then, Richie hit way too big of a growth spurt to be humanly possible over the summer of 1991; suddenly rising from an already-taller-than-the-rest 5’7 to 6’1. Eddie slapped his arm when he finally noticed, taking longer as he hadn’t much idea of the other loser’s height increases when he himself had only managed to grow two inches since 1989. Stan isn’t monumental in his size, still short when stood beside Richie; still holding a relatively small frame after all these years. However, Bill appears to be a twig near Stan- genetics remaining stubborn, laughing at him. He’s joined Eddie’s side when it comes to size jokes, looking as a child would, apparently.

Even Ben and Beverly had somewhat done better in the race of growth, though the both of them not too far ahead; Bill could metaphorically grab the back of their shirts with shaking hands, skeletal fingers that no longer looked his own. He doesn’t want to drag them down with him.

It’s 1994, and Bill Denbrough doesn’t understand where he went _wrong_.

He wonders if there is anyone he could ask, anyone who would hold the answers he’s looking for- because he is _lost_. He’s frail, he’s threadlike, he’s a martyr still to this day and because of this he will always throw himself into direct lines of fire. Whether that be the cruel words of his classmates, mentioning the way his bones barely seem contained within his skin these days, or the unbearable grief he still feels- the one that rears it’s ugly, dreadful head through the red ropes that restrain all the horrid thoughts he will (presumably) forever keep locked away. 

Bill Denbrough is painstakingly aware he cannot escape the plagues inside his own mind, instead just pushing them deeper. Even the ones he sees no problem with, the ones which tell him to interlace his own hand with Mike’s, those thoughts get tucked away to intermingle with the ones that tell him how disgusted Mike would feel. How much he would cringe at the feeling of Bill’s gross, vile palm and angular fingers slotted against his own. How unnatural it would feel to him, **_him_** Bill’s mind taunts. _Him_, _him_, _him_ because of course _he_ fell for a _him_.

Stan’s eyes watch him intently, scanning his face in the same way he does every single day. He presumes each time is for a reason, though, and the reason right now is how Bill almost grimaces at Mike’s touch- thinly veiled by the smile he puts on. Stan has always managed to read those smiles though, he knows, and it seems he has done so yet again; eyes sharp as they search his expression. Bill lets the smile falter by mistake, another thing to be thrown onto the pile of flaws he has allowed to build up over the years- as if they were clothes, his mind the floor. He contemplates letting it fall completely, to let bare and raw neutrality take centre stage, but decides against it when he catches Mike’s eyes on him in his peripheral. The smile is forced wider, until his eyes crease. Until his cheeks ache. Until fake appearances are no longer necessary.

This smile will remain there for eternity, he guesses, besides when he is left alone in the confines of his bedroom. Open window, unmade bed with wrinkled blankets strewn all over, a poster above that is peeling off at the corner. There, Bill lets this smile fade. There, Bill lets his eyes drop the light that shines so uncomfortably through them. He doesn’t understand why or how, but the losers seem at ease around such a light- as if it were guiding them through something, as if it were to be held onto like a last dollar bill or the hand of a trusted someone. Bill doesn’t understand, no, but he often reminds himself that this light is probably the only reason his friends haven’t left him behind yet; so he holds onto it, too.

“Façades aren’t pretty” Beverly whispered to him once upon a time (which he agreed with), “Bill Denbrough is.” (which he definitely disagreed with) is what she finished with, patting his chest before leaving. 

Clearly, even if not pretty, these “façades” do work- since Mike’s hand is still wrapped securely around Bill’s wrist, and Eddie smiles at him much more than he used to. Plus, a façade really isn’t the right word he believes; more like self-improvement. Sure, that’ll work.

Mike grins impossibly wider when Bill meets his eyes again, honey flaked chocolate greets him ever so welcomingly and Bill feels home when he falls into them. Home is a _sick_ reminder. He doesn’t really have one of those anymore, he supposes. He has a house, yes. He has a family, perhaps. But none of that is quite like the feeling that bubbles up in his chest when Mike waves him over at during lunch, or when he offers up his jacket because Bill is just _so_ _cold_ lately. 

Home is no longer what he returns to late at night, home is no longer wandering through now empty corridors filled to the brim with the ghosts of childhood memories. Home is no longer peering into a dust covered bedroom, furniture removed entirely and all reminders of a second child left barren. Home is no longer the brief glances his parents offer his way, barely registering that he is even there anymore. Home is no longer empty cupboards, or empty fridges, or empty eyes. Home is no longer his mother running her own fingers through his hair, because that doesn’t exist anymore- ripped into shreds and washed down the drain, _just like his baby brother._

Bill snaps himself away from that line of thinking once again to listen intently to Richie’s terrible British accent. He snorts at Eddie’s half-hearted kick. He watches as Beverly’s hand reaches out to Ben’s, both of them flushing slightly red. He feels his smile become a little more real as Stan rips his eyes away from Bill to instead scold Richie for his incorrect syntax. He feels a hand run down his wrist, he feels the interlocking of hands and the nervous pulse of Mike Hanlon line up beautifully with the beating of his own restless heart. 

Bill Denbrough has come home.

**Author's Note:**

> k word me on twitter do what u have to do @ 1989URIS


End file.
